On this the first Monday of the celestial year, He dons his argyle sweater, knickers, and cap and struts along a well worn path towards the edge of heaven. “Boy, get your ass in gear,” He yells. Jesus struggles to keep up, burdened with a bag of drivers on his right shoulder and carrying the bucket of balls in his left hand, which pains him still. They make the journey in a silence thickened with mutual resentment, and the Father is already impatient the moment they arrive. “Come on, boy, tee ‘em up!” Without a word, the Son inserts the tees into the dirt. He then selects the golf balls one at time, spits on each the thickest loogie he can muster, and lines them up. This mucous is the precious stuff of life. Originally the theory was that the slime’s precise bacterial composition would change with variations in the divine diet and thus produce an infinite biological diversity. But although Father and Son have feasted on many different types of sacrifices, the bacterial slime has remained remarkably consistent and the results have been uniformly disappointing. Sure, the Father still enjoys swinging His clubs and driving the fucked up little worlds into outer space – a slice to the left, another to the right, then one straight down the middle that makes Him smile and forget about His aching bones. But for years now, Jesus has wanted to break the damn clubs. He mutters. He’s grown weary of the repeated crucifixions.